University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
CATHARINE AT HOME.

When major Willoughby arrived at Mulberry-Grove,
after obtaining a commission for his son
at Washington, as recorded in the twenty-second
chapter of this history, he lost no time in visiting
his neighbor Fleming, who had arrived with his
daughter only five days before him. An explanation
immediately took place respecting every
circumstance attending the catastrophe at Richmond,
to the mutual astonishment of all parties.

When Catharine learned that she did not owe
her life to Sandford, but that she had been actually
saved by the intrepidity of George, supported in

his arms, and pressed to his bosom, her sensations
overpowered her, and she fainted. She soon revived,
however, and a few moments retreat to another
apartment, supported by her mother, restored
her recollection. Gratitude to her pretended
preserver had hitherto sealed her lips respecting
his villanous propositions; with her burning face
hid in her mother's bosom, she now for the first time
imparted the humiliating secret. Indignation for
the affront, horror for the danger her daughter
had incurred, and joy for her happy escape, almost
reduced the mother to the state from which
Catharine had just been recovered. It was imparted
to Fleming and Willoughby—the one
stamped with rage—the other returned thanks to
Heaven for her deliverance.

The general behaviour and particular anxiety
of George at Richmond, had for the first time imparted
to the mind of his father an idea which
the reader has for some time entertained. But
the major was unwilling to adopt it; for it was in
direct opposition to his favorite doctrine, that
“absence is the death of infant love.” It is true
he admitted, what he knew from his own experience,
that the seeds of a tender and lasting affection
may be sown in childhood; but he believed
that the seeds of vegetables could as easily spring
up and grow without the presence of the sun, as
those of love without the presence of its object.
George and Catharine were scarcely past childhood
when their separation took place. That
separation had lasted almost two years, and was
it possible, that her unfinished portrait had remained
in his bosom unfaded? Or had imagination,
during that period, been playing the artist,
and brightening the delicate tints of infancy to the

full lustre of youthful beauty? At any rate, was
it not evident, from present appearances, that
George would never have occasion to sink under
the preying despondency of a hopeless passion,
if Catharine Fleming was its object?

Such were the questions which arose in the
mind of Willoughby as he walked back to the
Grove, and although the responses of his heart
were not in exact unison with the pre-conceived
opinions of his head, yet, he determined to act, in
one respect, as if the former were correct. He
was ignorant of Sandford's former connexion with
George, but thought it more than probable that the
duties of their profession might one day bring them
together. Were George to be made acquainted
with the foregoing circumstances, unpleasant, if
not fatal consequences might be produced. It was
true that the mind of his son was strongly guarded
against the suggestions of false honor; still, if he
did really love Catharine, reason and religion
might possibly (on the impulse of the moment) be
both forgotten, and some disastrous event spread
a circle of misery over the placid surface of their
present destiny. He therefore merely informed
George, by letter, that Fleming and his daughter
had arrived home in safety, that Catharine was
very grateful to George for his gallantry in saving
her life at Richmond, and that the whole family
longed for an opportunity to thank him in
person.

Catharine did indeed long for such an opportunity.
For the first time she ventured to examine
the real state of her heart, and ended with the
conviction that she could bear, with comparative
composure, any misfortune except the loss of that
affection which she now more than ever believed

was cherished for her in the bosom of George.
His image, in the attitude of bidding her a silent
adieu, had been ever present to her imagination,
since their parting interview. The handkerchief
with which he hastily arrested one truant drop
that glittered on his cheek, was moist with her
own tears. He had turned to “look adieu,” for
he felt it impossible to articulate the word.

Such was the picture on which her fancy had
dwelt with growing fondness. It was that of a
blooming boy; and she had almost regretted that
his advance towards maturity would necessarily
displace those softer graces by more manly endowments:
she had felt that the slightest alteration
in a single feature, would be a blemish in the
lovely portrait, and mar, if not totally destroy,
its identity. She loved the boy—she had never
seen the man.

But since the late eclaircissment the picture
had been changed. A hero was now represented
bearing her almost lifeless form from a scene
of horror and destruction, at the imminent hazard
of his own life. From motives truly disinterested
and magnanimous, he had struggled with a devouring
element, disdaining to shrink from personal
danger while the life of a fellow-creature
depended upon his courage and exertions. In
vain a thousand tongues of fire demand his rescued
victim—in vain the forked flames pursue
him for their prey; he dashes undaunted through
the sulphurous cloud, and bears his prize in triumph
from the funeral pyre of Richmond's brightest
hopes. To reward the perilous achievement,
Heaven had directed his aid to one whose existence
was dear to him—to one whose death would
have inflicted a lasting wound in his bosom. His

subsequent anxiety for an interview had been represented
to her, and she now thought that life
would be insupportable if a meeting with her preserver
was much longer deferred.

Many tardy weeks lingered as they passed, vivacity
fled, health gradually declined, and the
once blooming lively Catharine was but the pallid
spectre of her former self. She sometimes resorted
to the harp for relief, but her performances
were too much in unison with the tone of her feelings,
to impart cheerfulness to her mind; the
“Parting of Friends,”[1] “Love in Secret,”[2] or
some other air of a similar character, would rise
unbidden from the sympathetic strings.

One circumstance that contributed not a little
to the melancholy of Catharine, was the illness
of her dear grandfather. During the long absence
of his favorite, the poor old man had fretted
himself incessantly; and the sudden impulse
of joy with which he embraced her on her return,
added to his terrors for the danger she had incurred,
proved too powerful for his debilitated system;
a raging fever, attended with frequent fits
of delirium, now kept him confined to his bed.
Catharine was his nurse, for in his lucid intervals
he would receive assistance from no other hand;
she watched continually by his pillow, except
when her mother exhorted her with tears to regard
her own declining health, and compelled her, at
times, to relinquish the office to her parents.

The tender assiduities of this affectionate family,
with the excellent prescriptions of a skilful
physician, were not entirely lost on O'Hara. His
fever was broken, his mental faculties composed,
and his strength so far restored, that in the course
of a month he could walk across his chamber,
supported by the arm of his attentive grand-daughter,
and occasionally recreate himself on his harp.

Catharine undoubtedly possessed the first place
in the affections of O'Hara; but next to her he
loved George Willoughby, his amiable and tractable
pupil. The old man would speak of him in
terms of approbation amounting to enthusiasm,
and delighted to hear others mention his name.
Catharine, who considered no task a hardship that
could impart a ray of comfort to the afflicted
heart of her poor sick grandfather, was never
backward in discussing his favourite theme, the
merits of master Willoughby. His heroic achievement
on the lake when not ten years old, his accomplished
manners, his generous disposition,
his daring intrepidity, his acquirements in literature,
his genius in poetry, and his skill in music,
were subjects which never wearied the ear of
O'Hara, nor fatigued the tongue of Catharine.
She would lull him to repose with some song that
George had written, and administered his nourishment
in a cup which George had formed of a curious
shell. The old man fretted continually at
the long absence of his pupil—and so, perhaps,
did Catharine.

One circumstance, which occurred two years
before, had tended not a little to endear the pupil
to his tutor. On the seventeenth of March, the
festival of Erin's tutelar saint, George requested
O'Hara to perform some national air, appropriate

to the occasion. The old harper refused, urging
as a reason, the present degraded condition of his
native country, and broke out into a torrent of invectives
against the tyranny which held it in vassalage.
Two days afterwards, at the conclusion
of his musical exercises, George sung the following
words to one of his tutor's favorite airs.—
From that time forward, no power on earth could
have convinced O'Hara that his pupil was not a
prodigy.

As the spring advanced, O'Hara's health continued
to improve; and on the morning of the
eleventh day of May, he accompanied his son-in-law
in a pleasant ramble of nearly half a mile,
during which he felt himself considerably revived
by the refreshing breeze which fanned him from
the lake.

As they were returning, a man in a sailor's
dress accosted Fleming, and requested some trifling
assistance, to enable him to pursue his journey
to the westward, he having walked all the
way from Philadelphia, and expended the little
money with which he set out. Fleming immediately
conducted him to his house, and ordered
breakfast to be prepared for the weary traveller.

During his repast, the son of Neptune became
communicative, and informed his hospitable entertainers
that his name was Collins, and that he
had for several years sailed in the merchant service
from the port of Boston, which was his native
place; but was afterwards impressed on
board a British ship of war in the West-Indies,
and for six years compelled to serve in his majesty's
navy on different stations; and that he
was finally transferred to the Macedonian, from
which he effected his escape at Norfolk, by swimming
from the frigate in the night. Three of his
shipmates, equally anxious to breathe the invigorating
air of liberty, were partners in this perilous
attempt to escape from an unjust bondage—
one of them only reached the shore with Collins.

From Norfolk he had worked his passage, in a
small coasting vessel, to Philadelphia, where he
fortunately met a gentleman with whom he had
been acquainted in Boston, who informed him
that his parents were dead, and that his brother

had purchased a farm in some part of Geauga
county, in the state of Ohio, on which he now resided.
This gentleman furnished him with a
small sum of money, with which he commenced
his journey in search of his brother.

Fleming observed that his escape must have
been a very hazardous undertaking.

“It was so,” replied the sailor; “but we were
willing to risk our lives for liberty. It was a great
distance to swim in a dark night, and our poor
shipmates must have sunk through fatigue. When
we mustered on the shore, there was but two of
us.”

“Were your unfortunate shipmates both Americans?”

“No, sir; but we had all been prest, and freedom
is as sweet to an Englishman as to an American.
There are now eight American sailors on
board the Macedonian, who had agreed to come
off with us, but their hearts failed them. Jack
Card, Will Thompson, and Jack Wallis, backed
out after they had got down the hawser. Tom
Nowell, whom I left in Norfolk, was an Englishman;
and one of the poor fellows that was drowned
was an American, the other an Irishman, who
had been prest in Belfast twelve years ago. I
loved him like a brother—but `grieving's a folly,'
as the song says. Poor Will and I have had
many a hard pull together.”

“Belfast!—twelve years ago!” exclaimed
Mrs. Fleming; “his name?”

“O'Hara.”

“O my poor brother William!”

The old harper uttered a dreadful groan, and
fell lifeless on the floor.

The scene which followed was distressing. The
females were distracted, Fleming bewildered, and
the sailor astonished. O'Hara was the first object
of attention; and Fleming, assisted by the sailor,
raised him from the floor, and placed him on a
bed; but he exhibited no tokens of life or sensation.
The condition of Mrs. Fleming was little
better; “Help my dear father!” “O my poor
brother!” were the only expressions to which she
could give utterance. The attention of Catharine
was divided between her mother and grand-father,
but the agitation of her spirits was so great
that she afforded little assistance to either. The
sailor did what he could, and lavished a thousand
imprecations on his limbs and eyes for being the
instrument of so much distress and confusion.

But vain were all their attentions to the old
harper—the sudden shock had been too violent
for his feeble frame—his spirit had fled to a better
world.